Death Valley "fun"

Wednesday

So last night after my native-food dinner of chicken-fried steak at a local diner, and before I fall into a deep, restful sleep as a result of my strenuous workout, I watch the local news for a while, and I have this to say: these Californians are not a sturdy lot. Because the very first item on the news, which warranted about 8 minutes of airtime, was about the rain that had been falling in the region. A deluge of biblical proportions, you ask? Umm, no. “Up to half an inch in some areas!” was more like it. Tujunga, where my brother lives, of course got no rain, because I was not in the area. LA got about a quarter of an inch – the horror!

The best part involved their interviews with the common “people on the street.” Whose lives were summed up in the caption beneath their names, as these lucky folks were forever lumped into either the group that “likes the rain,” or conversely, “wants warmer weather.” There might have been a bit of selection bias involved, because in the end, the “likes the rain” contingent beat out the “wants warmer weather” crew by about 6-2. The newsman wraps things up by noting “It’s really unusual to get much rain at this time of year.” Yeah, tell me something I didn’t know, bub.

As I’m contemplating the Mt. Whitney vs. Death Valley conundrum, I see all these grubby looking hikers stocking up on fruits and other things at the little fruit stand down the street, and once again, I think – "good god, what does one have to DO to get away from all of these damn people?” Really, who can commune with nature when after huffing and struggling one’s way up some craggy peak one reaches the top to find a gaggle of ex-urban former yuppies who’ve made their billions and now have nothing but time on their hands, enjoying a picnic? Not me, certainly. Death Valley it is, though first I stop for a latte at the sole coffee emporium in Lone Pine, where I chat with the lovely woman there who tells me that the wildflower vista is a bit of a disappointment this year in DV. With my expectations thus reset (read: drastically lowered off a cliff into oblivion), I set off. I also pick up an information sheet that tells me about the mountain passes to Yosemite and other places (all closed), and the condition of some of the roads in Death Valley – supposedly all open. Hmm.

Death Valley – 122 miles thataway

I took my brother’s advice and filled up on gas before I left Lone Pine, since the General gets sucky gas mileage and even I’m not foolish enough to tempt fate by driving through barren hinterlands toying with an empty gas tank. Though I don’t feel I need to worry about breaking down due to an overheated engine – it’s pretty damn cold for this time of year, so I can’t imagine even DV is that hot. I’m bundled up sufficiently to ward against the bone-chilling cold and wind, parka and all. As I drive over the endless roads, I think: this would be a great place for a triathlon! Okay, so my only rationale for this is that the roads are as smooth as butter, and thus far they’re just rolling, no major hills, so hey, why not a triathlon? I’m sure they could find volunteers willing to stand out here all day in this pleasant vista to hand out water and beef jerky and such, right?

40 miles later

I get to a scenic overlook, where the starkness of Death Valley starts to become clear – it looks like the land has been strip mined or something, it’s that bleak and foreboding. And to top it off, there are turkey vultures lurking about everywhere. As a result, I feel right at home.

Ah, but now that whole “valley” part is starting to become a little clearer. Because now we’re getting into these windy, twisty, curvy very steep hills that would be making me extremely carsick if I weren’t driving. This all seems a bit dangerous – are you telling me they couldn’t just carve a straight road up and over the mountains? Pish-posh. Slackers.

20 miles later

It’s as I’m going up one of these windy twisty sections that suddenly I see it! Wildflowers! My reason d’aitre, my mission, my.....well, whatever, because instead of the vast sweeping fields of wildflowers I had originally anticipated and been told to expect, I’m now getting all excited because I see a few clumps of flowers hither and yon. Still, I stop to take pictures – who knows when I’ll see something other than acres of rocks again?

Another 40 miles

I wonder, did the people who designed DV National Park have a weird sense of humor, or had they all just lost their minds from being out here too long? Because I get to the first real blip on the map that has a gas station ($5.16/gallon) and general store, and it’s called Furnace Creek. Not to be confused with Hell’s Stovepipe Falls, or something like that, which is the next blip. I step out of the car to go get some local food, and......holy shit, it’s hot. About 90 degrees hot. When did this happen, and why did no one inform me that Death Valley would be like an oven? Geez, had I only known.

I look at the map, and for some reason have a compulsion to head to Badwater. I wish I could say that I did some research on it, calculated mileage, distances, likelihood of wildflower viewing based on amounts of rainwater in January, etc., but no – I just think it sounds cool. Onward.

30 dusty miles later

It seems to be getting hotter, and there’s something foreboding and paranoia-inducing about the signs that insist “Turn off air conditioners next 28 miles to avoid car overheating.” Not only does it make one extremely thirsty, parched even, but I also keep looking at the gas gauge and fretting. I’m down a quarter tank – what if I inexplicably run out in this dry and dusty wasteland? Oh, okay, I guess there are plenty of other tourists driving by, but still. Damn people.

Badwater

Apparently I’m not the only one who felt compelled to make a pilgrimage to Badwater – which is really just a little turnoff where one can park a car and wander out onto the salt flats, which give Badwater its name. Some creative settler apparently had a mule who wouldn’t drink the water because it was too salty, and hence proclaimed it “bad water.” Such inescapable logic. Having procured a bike for my travels, a bike which I’ve laboriously stuffed into the back of the General Lee making me determined to ride it, dammit, I decide that this is a good spot to set off, aging tourists in their RVs be damned.

Later: okay, so perhaps going for a bike ride in the middle of Death Valley has not been my brightest idea yet. Must make a note of this for future trips. Gasp. Need..........water..........

After a rest

Now that I’ve awed even myself with my heretofore untapped levels of stupidity, I decide I’ll start heading back towards civilization. Having studied the map, I see that there’s the way I came, and then there’s another road that will put be on the road back towards LA in less of a circuitous fashion. Looking at the map that I bought in Furnace Creek, I can see that this alternate route looks like a decent road – not one of those dirt roads that are all but impassable in a hunk of tin like the General. So all should be well.

First, however, I make a detour to check out the Devil’s Golf Course. When I first saw this on the map, I admit I was a bit exasperated: “Must these fanatics stick a golf course everywhere?” You’d really have to be insane to attempt any kind of physical activity in Death Valley, not that golf really counts as a sport, though. In any case, when I see the actual sign for the DGC, naturally I need to check it out, dirt road and all. After traversing over the rocky road (note to my reader(s): NEVER buy a used car from a car rental place, EVER!), I get to what is simply a vast terrain of very craggy salty earth/rock. An endless sea of divots, I suppose – making the moniker appropriate if you’re, say, on heavy psychotropic drugs and coming up with names for such things. Nearby there’s a group of people with professional looking film shooting equipment, and one of the ever-present sightseers asks them what they’re up to – they’re shooting a “spaghetti kung fu western,” whatever the hell that is. When the “star” starts pulling out his samurai sword and swinging it about, I take that as my cue to leave.

28 miles later

I’ve just turned off onto a bucolic-sounding road called Wildrose – okay, so I missed the turnoff at first since the Park Service here apparently ascribes to the Missouri Methodology of having people guess at what roads are what, but now I’m on my way, whee! It’s a decent road, and lo, what’s this? Another clump of wildflowers! Feeling victorious, I stop for a picture.

Shortly thereafter, I’m squinting off into the distance and see something that appears to be somewhat familiar. As I get closer I see..........another completely insane person, aka a cyclist?? WTH? I thought I had cornered the market on this kind of foolishness! I go past him pretty slowly, prepared to offer assistance to a fellow loon if needed, but he looks prepared with a Camelbak and all, and hasn’t put a sign on his back saying “HELP ME!” or anything like that, as I like to do when I need to refill my water bottles, so I figure he’s okay.

This road, however, is interesting. It’s clear that nature is attempting to assert itself, as the grasses, brush, and other shrubbery of the area is growing at the side of the road where presumably there once was unbroken pavement, thereby making the road pretty narrow. I guess that’s why instead of a road sign, there was a warning telling people with RVs and trucks to not use this road. I can’t help but wonder what this road would look like if there were no maintenance at all and the encroaching vegetation were allowed to take over. Scary thought.

38 miles later

So apparently I’m not the only one who finds these “maps” rather useless, as I pass a couple of cars pulled over on the side of the road, and then find myself doing the same, as the signage makes no sense whatsoever. I’m looking for a turnoff road that will get me headed in the right direction, but the main nice road is taking me to some kind of mines, which isn’t where I want to go. The only (unmarked, mind you) road I passed was one that said “Caution, very rough road” – so that couldn’t be my nice main road back to civilization, could it?


Sometime later

It could. And now I’ve learned what happens to the roads when nature is allowed to take over, because I’m on said “roads.”

















The General is NOT happy. We’re crawling along this potholed, rutted, gritty road, I’m worriedly looking at the gas gauge, contemplating turning around but then that would put me in a bad spot because I’d have to go way way back to get back to my first road......when suddenly I see a glorious sight. People! Yay, glorious people, denizens of humanity! Ah, there should be more people everywhere, I tell you. Since I know now I’m not entirely alone on this godforsaken pitted stretch of road, I happily give them a jaunty little wave. At least if the General loses a gasket or something else of that ilk, I know that someone might come along eventually before I expire of thirst. That’s some comfort.

I also make another useful note to myself: the road less traveled.......sometimes, it’s that way for a reason. I really have to get over this inclination of mine to take the “alternate route” or “scenic route” or “seeming shortcut.” It’s not necessarily a good thing, particularly in Death Valley. Which is undeniably gorgeous and breathtaking in a magnificently bleak and harsh way, but there’s also something about DV that makes you want to, well, leave. Because you quickly wind up with the rather desperate feeling that you just might not be able to.

More driving

As I look at the craggy black mountains and hills on which very little is growing, I can’t help but think of the first people to come across this sight as they made their way westward in search of gold, adventure, and California beaches. Nomadic pilgrims who, having walked through the lush territories further east, step over a crest and see stretched out before them a vast valley of rock, salt flats, and not much else. I imagine that many of these pilgrims perished here in the desert, their trademark conical hats left to bleach white in the unrelenting sun. Sad.

Yet....more.....driving

I now realize that being in Death Valley is a lot like being on the moon. The rocky terrain is certainly much like a moonscape, but there’s also the following commonality: that in both places, you feel like you’re pretty much the only person out there, and if you have some kind of mechanical failure or malfunction, you’re basically screwed.

Aha, I see

NOW I get why it’s called Death Valley. Duh! Now, when it’s too late, sigh, I finally get it. I’ve seen nothing and no one for miles and miles, gas is running low, I’ve turned off the air conditioner to conserve said gas, I only have a jug of water and a cooler (a small one) of snacks with me.....clearly, I am doomed.

Some ungodly number of miles later

Huzzah? Suddenly, after the endless miles of bad pavement, I see a most beautiful sight: an endless junkyard of hulking, rusted-out old cars and other pieces of discarded machinery stretched out as far as the eye can see. I have no idea how and why this is where bucket-of-bolts cars and the like come to die, but who am I to quibble?

As I drive into what is apparently the little burg of Trona, I’ve never been so happy to see a town, any town, even one as dumpy, run down and boarded up as Trona is. Starting with the car graveyards on the outskirts of town, we quickly get to salt flats on the left against the backdrop of some kind of industrial equipment, as if some conglomerate has tried to dredge some kind of cash crop out of even this scrubby and desolate patch of earth. On the right – another big factory in the background, with lots of squat houses along the road, most of them boarded up with plywood. Any signs of commerce seem extinguished – it looks as if there was some kind of nuclear disaster and everyone just picked up and left. In fact, look up the definition of “industrial wasteland”, and there would be a picture of Trona.

And yet – a sign indicates that this wee town has NINE churches (why does that always seem to be the case, that the most forgotten and poor towns and cities have an inordinate number of religious institutions? Because, I hate to say it, but I don’t think God is listening) – and then, of all things, a bike path. A dusty one to be sure, but yes, an actual paved bike path running alongside the road. Soon, I see an actual person riding on this path, on a recumbent bike. Now I truly feel like Alice in Wonderland – and no, I have absolutely zero inclination to stop the car and ride on said path for a while. I’m not crazy, you know. In fact, this whole town, happy as I am to see some sign of civilization, gives me the heebie-jeebies, in a very Stephen King “Children of the Corn” kind of way. Though I guess it would be more like “Children of the Barren Desert Industrial Salt Flats”, which doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

I do fuel up quickly at a gas station on the outskirts of town, and head off, noting that I temporarily have cell phone reception again, and feeling like I’ve just emerged from the Bermuda Triangle. When I pass the Bel-Air motel again, on my way back to LA this time, I feel like I’m seeing an old friend. Decrepit and slasher-esque has never looked quite so good.